As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish
By pangs which a smile would dispel?
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish,
For torture repay me too well?
Now sad is the garden of roses,
Belovéd but false Haidée!
There Flora all withered reposes,
And mourns o'er thine absence with me.
[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:
The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
- Has bound my soul to thee.—[MS. M.]
- When wandering forth alone.—[MS. M.]